Malcolm's Loophole
by PlathRamsey
Summary: Bart Foxworth is contacted by Bartholomew Winslow's only surviving child, Adam Winslow. This means an older half-brother for Bart. Maybe this will be a chance at a true sibling relationship on the other side of his family, untainted by the incestuous Dollanganger bloodline. Bart doesn't realize that big brother Adam may be his most sinister, depraved relative after all. M for sex


Every family has its fair share of secrets. Few families see the skeletons in their closet rising up like zombies from graves you dug for them _. Welcome to my family._

I am Adam Winslow, a secretive baby born to a wealthy father, but separated from his... indiscretions. Today is my thirtieth birthday, and I plan to celebrate it in the vein of a Foxworth, and not a Winslow. Today, I dine with fate itself, and try to prove God a liar. My little half-brother, Bart Winslow, is on his way over for an evening dinner. _Dinner is me._ I have summoned the spirit of Malcolm Foxworth to cross paths in an evening of wine and passion. Tonight, I will commit an unthinkable sin; _tonight I will seduce Bart Winslow._

I dress to impress in knee-high black socks that stretch for miles, in shiny leather shoes. I slip on gray boxers with the imprint of a rose on the crotch over myself, and over that, I drape my blackest pants. As I discover and button up my white shirt, I contemplate the battle of wits that lies before me. The man who is coming to greet me is a product of my father, but his mother had him out of spite - a tactical move of espionage against my father's recent marriage. I was, too, a product of spite and scorn; my father had me to spite his wife. Of course, I was never meant to be born, so, if anything, I have been nothing but a _monkey wrench_ since birth, an oddball, undefined, cast out. I am the unforgiven. Swept under the rug for years, I have lived with my mother - an honest woman caught up in a web of lies. Tonight, I will shame even her.

My mother does not know that the temptation of women does not satisfy me. She has no idea that I am obsessed with Bart/Malcolm. She must never know that my half-brother is a conquest that I must undertake like a cross to bear.

 _Save me, Bart. My arms are open, tonight for you, and you, alone._

My silky black overcoat effortlessly oozes over my body, draping me in security as I know the task at hand is dire. I dream about the man that shares blood and destiny with me, and wonder what he will look like. I can only imagine. Bart Winsow, a self-made millionaire... or _megalomaniac._ At a young age, he tried to kill his adopted-sister, and learned of a terrible secret that his "parents" bore: Christopher and Cathy were, in fact, _brother and sister_. They had raised Bart and his siblings under the guise of a happy marriage. How _quaint._

You see, I understand this man in ways that neither of us will be able to explain tonight.

It's as if a past life is calling to me - a skeleton yearning to "come out of the closet." It's all in Bart Winslow's strong, powerful hands. May they mold me, tonight. May they take me into the depths of the family prison _. I will wear this dark honor with royalty for one taste of him._

Bart Winslow is Malcolm Foxworth, and Malcolm Foxworth, tonight, is _me._ I am constantly the conflicted and confused; drowning out the wicked voices in my head that tell me that I shall not lie with another man. We all have our demons. Heaven help me, however, I _need_ this man. I need him like I need the very blood in my veins, and I want him and I want to mold his fate like I want to be molded within his _beautiful hands._

It is, of course, now, that there is a knock on the door, from one of those strong, powerful hands. A reverent image appears in my head of Christ knocking upon buildings and towers. Funny, that I drew only the _"Tower"_ Tarot card as I had my first sip of wine. Forgive me, Bart. Forgive me of my sin, because my sin is also yours.

"Coming!" I yell out over-zealously. _Fuck. Freudian slip, much?_

The newly polished floors of my humble abode aid me in a graceless slip, awkwardly, towards the front door. My heart is racing. Too many thoughts to keep track of fly past my head, but one is, undoubtedly, if he is circumsized or not.

 _ **"MAL-"**_ I swear, it's the wine talking. I really meant to say, "Bart," but my penis wants to communicate directly with Malcolm. Hey - I never said I was good at making first impressions.

"Adam!" he interrupts with pride and vigor. Already, the mind game has begun. The look in his eyes is unshakable. I know he knows what I know. "Happy birthday!"

I thank him, blushing slightly. A man is supposed to age gracefully, after all - especially a man hoping to acheive esteem like a Foxworth.

Before me is something truly statuesque - a man dressed in a dark suit, too - but more in gray and earth than the darkness which swallows me. His overcoat hangs on his well-toned body which I can notice, immediately through his clothes. _Brother, how we've grown._ My eyes cannot help but obsess and undress - though I try to sneak phto-flash moments to carve this greek god into my memory. It is an image I will never forget.

"Come on in, brother!" I graciously declare, throwing caution to the wind and extending my arms. For a brief second, I close my eyes, imagining him wanting to hug me. Instead, a rather engaged Bart replies.

 _"Okay!"_

He is sharp as a tack. I break away from my fantasy, and move out of his way, as if I am a lowly peasant in the presence of a king. _Oh, glorious King Malcolm... in sheets befitting the babe of Bethlehem, to me - a throne awaits for thee!_

 _Damn this wine!_

Perhaps it would be a good time to mention that this is on the end of a three-day-binge, all in ceremonious preparation for the coming of Bart Winslow/Foxworth. The wine is, instinctively, what I manage to gravitate to, instead of checking out his ass in his dress pants as they sway.

Now, when I say, "in preparation," let me be frank with you: if Bart and I were to consume all the alcohol in this house tonight, at least one of us would certainly die.

 _Did I mention I played Russian Roullette once?_

"Have some wine, my long lost friend," I encourage.

Well, okay, I am being rather pushy, already pouring a large glass for him. The sizzling of the delicious rotten fruit wanes in my nostrils as a warning that tomorrow will be the hangover in Hell. But I may be going there after tonight, anyway.

 _What time is it? Didn't he say eight-o-clock, sharp?_

 _Oh; he was exactly right,_ I think, looking at the clock, or anything to distract myself from his body. But his eyes draw at me, nipping like a compelling force that I just can't escape from.

"Thank you, so much," he greets with sincerity, already showing a great demeanor and go-getter attitude. When Bart is tuned in, he is a mastermind. I hand my beloved king his ceremonial wine, and harbor sacrilegious thoughts as his hand graces my left and then right, as we clink glasses in cheers and in synchronicity.

This man is truly the chosen one. Well, okay, so maybe *I'm* choosing him for myself, but it will all even out in the end, right? _I have faith in Malcolm._

"It's so nice to finally see you," I manage to slur out, after sipping the wine before I can start a single sentence. "I have waited a long time for this day."

"As have I," Bart replies. "Even though I only learned of your existence... just _recently_!" He smiles a devious smile that lets me know he is sly and dangerously clever. I see it in him, like looking into a mirror, a deviation from this world that resembles a _hunger_. I can only think of hunger for him now, having confirming all that I've longed to know. His eyes are so _mysterious_. They are the eyes of an attempted murderer, and provocateur. The line between genius and madness is a road he walks with bare feet like a great god. _It is meant to be._

"It seems our paths were _meant_ to intertwine," I begin, "given such a grievous history within our blood."

"You're starting to sound like my grandmother," Bart delivers with another polished smile. After laughter, and let's say, a generous sip off of his glass, he makes a move. "So, were we having some type of dinner?"

I smile, too proud of my own sense of sadistic humor to act sympathetic.

"Dinner is _wine_ ," I say, like an alcoholic in denial. Oh, I want so truly to be free of my demons. Tonight is the ritual of my cleansing. Malcolm will save me, right?

Bart _laughs. Oh, thank God, he laughs!_

"You're a good man, brother," he says, "I can tell. But such an offer from one good man to another is like a deed. If you promise me, 'cup over-floweth,' than I shall partake until the rivers run dry."

Well, that was very... _biblical_. I suppose I should have expected such a fervor in this reverend But if the gospel was the bottle tonight, _by God, it was going to sing!_

"Consider it a deed, then," I say. "Your lips will never go dry, for as long as you are awake, and as long as you stay with me, my brother."

 _"Now THIS sounds like a birthday!"_

His wit is trained and disciplined - a mind and body darkly tuned to a mechanism of lust and resistance. I know his struggle, for his struggle is mine. We share a bloodline that, thirty years ago, sent me spiraling, unaware and _terrified,_ into this world.

I need _guidance_ , you see. I'm no martyr, either... but a catalyst for our shared demon. I see it in his eyes as he takes a comfortable seat, and relaxes in his shoes that shine much brighter than mine. He is caught in the glow of my tackiest lamp; _I knew I should have moved it._ Still, his glow is angelique. I have never seen a man of such a demeanor before. _Lord knows Father made the cut._

I don't care about genetics; I don't care about _innocence_. Tonight is my rebirth. The ceremony has begun, whether my king knows it or not.

Something very wild has obviously taken over now... and time and wine both flow on around us as if we are the only two passengers on the world's darkest and scariest bus. The surrealism of his words as he speaks, the fury and the pain... and the way that, sometimes, his voice will _strain_ when he mentions his mother - it leads me to believe even further in my plan. _Bart, I wish you could understand that there is no way out for people like us. It matters not how you got here, but how you spend your time..._

 _... and time passes along..._

Flashes of my hands are strewn across my eyes in double-vision. In essence, four hands seemingly wrap around the neck of Bart Foxworth, as a disembodied voice boasts about a massage therapy class that I've never actually taken. I just can't take anymore. I am under the gun, and damn it, I want to pull the fucking trigger. The trigger is your fucking _cock_ , Malcolm _. Come to me, brother._

 _"You're really good!"_ a drunken Bart compliments. It feels warm and sincere, and feeling is all I can do right now, buried deep in the undershirt of my _obsession_. His strong, flexing shoulders absorb my fingertips over expensive clothing, and suddenly I feel totally free. I am at peace, and in meditation. His slight groans, I can tell, are starting to upset him... but I know he will eventually give in to me. _Don't fight it, Bart. Embrace it. Embrace ME._

"Okay," he reluctantly shrugs off - "I think I'm all... _massaged_. Thank you!"

"Not a problem," I say, taken out of Heaven like a fallen angel by his betrayal. **Bart...**

We consume more, and _more_ wine and formalities, until finally, in slurred and stuttered conversation, his once-pithy jabs at Christopher become more pronounced, and more vicious. I feel in the presence of a doomsday prophet, rattling off _fire and brimstone._

 _"We must resist the temptation of sin,"_ he bellows, so self-assured. "It is sin that binds us to our blood, and we must break free from this mortal world - if only to save our souls!"

 _Oh, Bart. If you only knew how I long to save us both._

"Do you hate him?" I ask with genuine intrigue. My long blonde hair swishes as I unbutton the first button of my shirt, hoping it to be the first of many. "- Christopher, I mean - do you hate him for his 'sin?'"

 _"I..."_

Bart stutters and stammers.

"I think I should... go lay down."

 _"Okay!"_ I delightedly exclaim, too excited by the prospects of watching him undress to concentrate on my social skills. "I've prepared the bed especially for you."

Now I can tell that I'm starting to weird him out - starting to lose him. Bart looks at me through even his own drunken mind and stares right through me, as well. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed.

 _"Bart..."_

"Adam... what do you... actually **know** about Cathy and Christopher?"

 _ **Oh, no.**_

My secret motivation is beginning to unravel itself like a terrible package I do not wish to open! _Bart, I will not lead you astray, tonight!_ Please let me IN...

 _... those dress pants!_

"I know... that we cannot run from who we are," I say, almost as if I've been waiting a thousand lifetimes to say it. "If there are demons in our blood, then it just helps the angels to free our souls when we bleed out and die."

"Well, that was _... morbid_ ," he remarks, "but I like it."

"If you like it," I stand with confidence and conviction, "Maybe you'll like _me_."

The ceremony is underway - a changeling in the lion's cage, placating a roar - I am ready.

 _Malc-_ I mean Bart, chokes on his wine. _"- Excuse me?"_

 _"Don't fight it, Bart! I have so much to tell you!"_

Now, the roles have reversed; _**I**_ am that doomsday preacher, warning him of the encroaching Armageddon. Penance will be swift, and justice will be carried out tonight.

 _"Get away from me!"_ Bart exclaims, struggling to rise to his feet and stay at an even level. He is fighting my hand, _but my hand is righteous._

 _ **"Bart, you don't understand! This is what Malcolm would have wanted all along!"**_

"How dare you invoke the name of _**MALCOLM!"**_

In a sudden, drunken rage, Bart burns with a terrible resolve, and rushes to my eyes with his. He longs now for a confrontation; I will soon oblige.

We are inches away from each other, now. The hot wine-tinted breath of Bart is emerging like the monster I knew was inside him all along. I can feel his heat, like it was stalking the family tree for almost two decades. It's like being compelled by my own shadow, a fragmented other half, with eyes like fire, _and an ass that won't quit._

He finishes the wine in his glass, and tosses it to the floor.

 _I love this man._

"Bart," I plead with a soft voice, almost astral-projecting in the body of the man I've always longed to be. "I know of the family secrets; I know of the ones who raised you, as well as those whom have raised _them._ I have been waiting so many long, agonizing years to meet you."

"You're... insane!" he dismisses, frowning with serious distress as he wobbles back and forth in his brown, long socks.

My carpet has several fresh red stains. My heart is drowning in liquid courage. My errection speaks for itself. It is time.

 _"I am what you are," I say, "as you are what I am."_

"Stop it!" he screams, struggling to back away, but now my arms caress around his waist. Even as he fights it, he cannot fully break away, and I know this. I know this as surely as my name is _**Adam Winslow**_ , and that the man I am cradling is Malcolm Foxworth's doppelganger - here to rid the world of sin. _My sin must now be cleansed._

"The temptation of women is wicked, my brother," I exclaim, summoning what can only be described as a tone that serves only mocking fakery of my prophet's passion, but I believe in my words. "The women of this family, much like _Eve in Eden_ , have taken the bait and the bite from the serpent's kiss. Only the kiss of a righteous man can cure our iniquity!"

 _"What are you... talking about?"_ I feel him slouching somewhat in my arms, and in his eyes, I see a sight I never imagined - a fear - vulnerability from the one soul I know is already in Hell.

"Bart, your _salvation_ awaits. Where others have failed you, I have come to set free what you know lives in your blood. _I will free you of this curse!"_

 **"No!"** he protests, squirming around like a toddler in the arms of a loving mother, "No! Stop it!"

 _"Shhh..."_

Bart stops fighting my embrace, either from fatigue or acceptance, and lets me hold him with a love I knew I possessed like a ghost finding its body's grave. I gaze deeply into his troubled eyes and see the murder and the fervor. I want my monster. I want my devil and angel to nip at my shoulders as I climax in this man's grasp. It is time to resolve the conflict.

"I see love in your eyes, Bart," I say in solemn proclamations.

I whisper like I am reading him precious fairy tales, and provide comfort and the clarity that most Tarot readers only boast about. You see, I have found my answer; in all these years tracking down the root of my ancestors, and their motivations, I have found this one god among men, and I take him in my wings.

"This love," I state, almost with a maturely broken heart, "is not for me, but it is just as forbidden."

"What are you telling me?" Bart whimpers out, hanging onto my chest as the buttons give way a little more.

"I am telling you not to deny your true feelings, Bart. Embrace the nature as your gift. Embrace me as your sweet sacrifice on the road to redemption!"

"What?"

 _(Perhaps it really IS the liquor talking now)._

Lovingly I caress his cheek with my left hand, and with a dominant right, I strategically aim for my one holy grail: the bulge of his crotch. The reaction is absolutely instant, and intense. He _moans_ , and holds me tighter, but then backs away. I do not unhinge my grip.

"This... is wrong!" he exclaims. "You're my _\- my-"_

" _I am your destiny, Bart_." I squeeze tighter on his bulge and feel it growing in my hands. _My, my, so impressive_. I want this treasure. I will savor this prize. If I cannot win his heart, then I will save his _soul._

Bart's reaction is now swift, and sudden. He takes both of my hands in his, grabbing them away from his pants, and positioning his beautifully constructed body against mine. His power is demanding and driven. I cannot free myself from his hands. He pins me against the couch as we fall back to our initial speaking place - our first interaction as passengers on that scary bus. Now he finally understands the destination. Now he finally understands that the wheels of the bus have been turning for exactly thirty years.

Finally, we fall onto the loveseat (which I received as a birthday gift I imagined for this purpose alone), and like an angel shedding wings, I undress. I cannot break free from his grasp an so I give in.

"Rid me of my sin!" I scream, as I swear that I feel his erection almost coiling around mine.

"You are unsalvagable, Adam Winsow," he laments. "You are guttertrash... the lowest whore on the totem pole."

"Then fuck me off the pole!" I exclaim.

"Prostitute!" he shouts, while fervently clasping his hand onto my chest. My ribs absorb every pore of his mighty palm as he continues his sermon.

"VERMIN!"

His other hand wraps around my crotch, and the rose on my boxers blooms.

"I CONFESS!" I moan in shrill, orgasmic terror.

His confident smile resumes, almost like he is a schizophrenic mental patient choosing a new identity to pass the time.

"On your knees, harlot!" he righteously commands. Like a snake, he rises off me and the pressure of my whole body relents. I drip down off of the loveseat like venom from Bart's fangs, and assume the sacred position beneath him.

I cannot say I've sobered up - no, not in the slightest - but let me shoot straight with you. Before me, regaled in second nature was my animal instinct, yielding, and yet, at the same time, tearing loose. I am a vicious submissive.

That is to say, at this point, like I am unraveling ancient runes, I unbutton Bart's expensive dresspants like a fucking tailor. I skillfully peel away the skin of the snake, layer by layer wth suave hand gestures, looking up at my king with his mischievous smile. His cock is growing, rising to the throne, and I wish to kiss its head.

As it, too, breaks loose from its cage, I hold it in my hands. I look down and admire my best birthday present yet, strong, long and yet delicate. I clasp my hand around it and squeeze with premeditated pressure. I feel the resistance burning in my hands from this king's wand. As I manipulate the sensations from my fingertips through his erection, I begin to plan my attack.

I look up at him one last time, lovingly, and Bart nods with approval.

"Can you forgive me, Bart?" I whimper, feeling the warm penis vibrate with slick, slippery motions in my eager hands.

Bart's smile is wicked and sensuous. It grows in drunken temptation as he talks down to me even now.

"Not yet."

Now, the kill begins. With my eyes fall upon his cock a motion of polarity. My mouth gravitates to its head, and his right, strangling hand takes control away from both of mine as he aims his missile. I open as wide as possible, and resume my mouth as far down as I'm allowed. I swallow hard in big, boisterous thrusts with my tongue as I hear his moans grow louder... and louder.

I want this missile to explode in me, heat-seeking and irreverent. I want to be christened in its embers.

As I take him in over and over, I wrap my hands around the back of his pants and swing further down his cock with my mouth. On demonstrative cue, Bart's hands fully release his cock, and find home pulling the length of my hair.

I lose track of everything as I become wholly my mouth with my mind. This is the resolution I have been seeking my entire life.

After careful strokes of my lips, and haphazardly breathing through my nostrils, I begin to develop a skill I am taken slightly and then forcefully away from Bart's cock. His hand is like a black hole, guiding my head like a doomed planet in its pull. I brake away, and struggle to breathe.

"Turn your face away from me!" Bart demands, but I cannot quickly reply with obedience. I choke as he grows impatient. "NOW!"

Reluctantly, I shake, and turn over, my cock now falling freely out of my pants as I face the table in front of my loveseat, adorned with wines I know I'll probably be consuming alone by morning. I shut my eyes, and sneak my hand around my throbbing muscle, too. I can feel Bart as he is mounting me, preparing with his hands gliding over my bare back. With my pants unbuckled, I feel myself being taken away like a kite in the wind by an updraft I know by so many names.

"Bart..."

 _ **"Call me Malcolm."**_

The battle is fully underway now, with the monsters we share as legion choosing sides. Newly transformed, Malcolm takes confident grasp of both my senses and my body. Though my sight is dulled and my words are slurred, I know as I utter and moan his chosen name under the mold of his fingertips that there is no escape. I hang my head down. I hold my hung instrument of sex and grip it violently, the head of my penis throbbing as I feel myself rolling over my shed clothes and feeling the pressure on me. His breath is wet, and sinuous. My shoulder blades ooze cool beads of dimly lit sweat as I gasp at his touch.

"Malcolm," I manage to whimper, _"take me..."_

 **"Shut up!"** he commands, taken over with his lust. _"Bow your head for me, slut!"_

I do as I'm told, but evidently not fast enough, as I can feel Malcolm's righteous hand unfettered by the confines of his flesh, forcing my head to his desired position. My free hand dangles like a corpse's. My only dominant grip moves fluidly back and forth to stimulate myself as I can feel his body smoldering for mine... but not to burn, to purify. I am unclean. As I can feel Malcolm's mighty cock taunt at my backside like the slight nipping of a fruit, I wish to be remade.

"You think you know me, or my family?" he grunts and demands. "Well, let's put your knowledge to the test, _sinner_!"

My body is willfully controlled in his sexual puppetry. I am a tool for his pleasure, alone. He forces me open with what feels like a vice grip on my ass. Waxed and prepared, I welcome the dominating force in his violent thrust. The penetration is wonderful and overpowering. He forces me into a straddle and refuses my will to fight. My will is gone, now. _Now, only Malcolm's will shall be done._

Sodom is burning beneath me. My reddened ass cheeks slide with his free hand as he holds me beneath myself. I hold my breath, anticipating this baptism from my prophet - one which I dare not risk to come up from for air. I can feel myself being pulled apart as his cock effortlessly slides in between and over my thighs, and pricks at the opening. I cannot help but moan just at the mere contact, but Malcolm commands my silence. He takes great liberty to seat himself perfectly, never paying mind to my comfort. I am a whore begging above rags for petty coin. He delivers. He enters me, and Kingdom has come.

I can barely move under his power, overpowered by lust to submit to this collision. He takes me as a mount and uses me in ways only my darkest dreams could find before - off of that dark and scary bus that we were riding together in my mind - to a hellish slum where no one will hear my desperate screams. Back and forth, almost in and out of my very mind, I sway with his takeover. My body is a metronome for his movements, his cock sliding effortlessly in and out of me. Though the pleasure is immense, the pain is also present. His violence and madness whip at me as he pushes me to my limit with every pulsating pelvic punch.

Deeper slides the pride of Foxworth into the shame of the Winslows. _Deeper disappears Bart into Malcolm, and Malcolm into me._ Like the binding of all sin, I feel every inch of him crawling to my soul... _to fuck it._

Inside the muscles of my ass, I can feel Malcolm exploring, grunting and _pushing_ me further into the floor until I smell the wine on my carpet. I clench my teeth to deal with the pain, and open myself with all my thoughts and want. Willfully accepting my brother's package, he buries the sacred cock inside me, thrusting my whole body back into the worthless dirt on which I built this kingdom. I have fallen short of the glory!

"You chose the wrong brother to _fuck_ with, Adam!" hollers the man possessed by his trigger and target.

"I -!" in between moans, I respond, "- I - I wanted to - to set you **FREE** , _Mal-"_

 _ **"I SAID SHUT IT!"**_

My head crashes fully against the floor with one sway, push, and slam. One fell swoop becomes the fall, and the release of my hair. He focuses both hands on my hips and pushes my newly limp body further into the debaucherous mess beneath us us both. _I give in..._

I cannot keep track of time... Every time I try to focus my mind on grunts or thrusts or even epithets - trying desperately to hang onto my sanity - I lose it all to blur and fog and lust. I wanted to remember this... I wanted it to be perfect. Perfection is terrifying, though... like staring into the abyss and trying to quantify light. Heaven's gates in my view, I can feel Malcolm's judgment through his pulsating cock, and his calculated balls which slap and stick against the backs of my legs with his taunting. He was right about me. He was right about everything.

 _Take me, Malcolm. Save me._

The violence and the madness force my own cock out of my hands, nearly standing my body off of the floor by itself, instead of my legs. I don't need this body, anyway; the body is only a vessel for lust, and mine is fulfilled. After thirty agonizing years, the pain of a lifetime is finally greeting me in exquisite eroticism. _His cock is nearly ripping me in half!_

"You think you can set me free!" Malcolm bellows maniacally as he continues fucking me almost in fluid insanity. "Ha! You foolish, little bitch. All my life, the people who claim they are helping me end up lying and betraying me! All of this misguided misdirection from people who have known nothing of me - _Christopher,_ my _grandmother_ , _John Amos_ \- and now even _you_ \- a stranger who shares my cursed blood? Lower your head, bitch. None of you have a shred of what it truly takes to be me. _DO YOU HEAR ME?!_ **I AM MY OWN MAN!"**

By the end of his words, I fall even further down - the lowest bitch on the totem pole - just as my brother spate, falling off their fucking like a conman falling from a priest's robe. Unfit for this righteous fuck, tamed, bruised and reddened, I succumb. Just as my muscles tighten around my brother in the most constricting way, the pressure is too much for him. He climaxes, and the rapture is glorious. Squirting, shameless, Foxworth charm explodes within me. His orgasm sends him spiraling back like a seizure victim as he - not moans - but ROARS. My king is in awe of his sacred rite, and so am I.

My ass becomes like a volcano, desperately trying to consume the eruption, but the lava burns too strong, and too hot. Oozing out from my trembling cheeks as my eyes roll into the back of my skull, I furiously crank and pivot with my palm until I come, too. My cock is like a tuning fork in frequencies my ears have never heard before, ejaculating at a fevered pace, over and over, multiplied by Malcolm's insane grasp around my waist as I scream.

 _ **"Malcolm!"**_

 _"No!"_ he corrects, swatting my already burning ass with a swift hand as I orgasm one last time into my shaking hand. "Now you will call me Bart, bitch."

 _"Bart..."_ a timid voice squeaks out from my lips as I coil my body in satisfaction and shame intertwined. I say it again, and again...

 _"Bart..."_

I hang limp as our coats on my rack. The sweat is thickening on me as I attempt to catch a breath. Now, in my own baptism, newly remade, Bart's lusciously incestuous hand tempts me again, tearing me from my shock with a forceful tug of my shoulder. I fall back against his heaving chest as we both submit to our intoxication.

The loveseat soothes the boiling state of my lower body as I seat my legs between his. My eyes stammer out in sloppily attempted sight. I know I am blacking out, remembering past events up to this declaration of war. The war is over now, though. Only battles scars remain. Something, however, still keeps me conscious to behold one last miracle: my last memory on the greatest night of my life.

"Happy birthday, brother," taunts my king from his eternal throne, "and welcome to the family. If you tell a single soul I was here after the morning, I will _kill_ you. But for now, you are safe in my arms."

 _Yes. Yes, I am, Bart._

I smile in bittersweet happiness, knowing my mission was a success. The beautiful beast inside my brother had finally found itself free from his cage. My eyes now begin to close with loving acceptance as his grasp on my body tightens and wills me into sleep.

 _ **Happy birthday to me...**_


End file.
